


Panic Attacks

by AllTheQueensHorses



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Basically Jaskier is just tortured for months, But definitely not until then, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt No Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Panic Attacks, Some comfort in Chapter 2 and beyond, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 23:35:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29990526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllTheQueensHorses/pseuds/AllTheQueensHorses
Summary: Jaskier, captured by Nilfgaard and tortured for weeks, has panic attacks because no one knows where he is and no one is coming to rescue him.Basically a giant whump fic with plenty of angst and hurt but no comfort until later.Trigger warnings throughout the whole story for panic attacks.
Comments: 29
Kudos: 42





	1. Chapter 1

Jaskier had panic attacks most days now. He had always known his mother and grandmother had delicate nerves but he had assumed that it hadn’t passed on to him. 

Apparently he was wrong. Or maybe it was just his situation, being captured and ‘questioned’ by Nilfgaard.

The panic came most often when he heard the tramp of boots down the hallway towards his cell. His captors tended to alternate his food and his torturing. He assumed they were each once a day, but he really didn’t know. It had been weeks since he’s seen the sun. He had no way to track the passage of time aside from his beatings and the growth of his patchy beard and tangled hair which was slowly creeping down towards his jawline. 

He tried time and time again to keep his breathing steady when he felt the panic crinkling at the edges of his mind, to wait to see what would happen next, but it rarely worked. Often, when they shoved the tray of food under the door and left, he could close his eyes and slowly calm his racing heart by imagining himself elsewhere. Maybe when he opened his eyes he would be back home or in Oxenfurt or with Geralt. Anywhere but _here._

It never worked.

The times they marched into his cell and dragged him to his feet, he couldn’t contain his panic. He panted with fear, knowing him leaving his cell only ended one way - with terrible pain. He struggled against them at first, but it never worked. Nothing worked. He always ended up in _that_ room, either strapped down to the chair, thick leather cuffs trapping his limbs and holding him tightly in place, or hanging from chains, metal manacles scraping at the delicate skin around his wrists as he dangled, suspended in midair, feet barely touching the ground.

Sometimes in his panic he made himself blackout from lack of oxygen as his chest tightened around each breath impossibly taut. It was a small mercy, being able to spend a few minutes unconscious and pain-free. They always waited for him to regain consciousness before the torture started though. They were nothing if not patience. A knife trailing down his face or across the palm of his hand sometimes. A whip cracking across his back or stomach, other times. Sometimes they held his head underwater, suffocating him until he blacked out yet again. 

A few rare times he had small moments of relief. They sent a healer in to.... _care for him_ was the wrong sentiment. _Keep him alive,_ rather, making sure he was still alive enough for the next session. The cell door opened too soon, _too soon for food, too soon since his last torture session, he wasn’t ready, he couldn’t face them yet_ and Jaskier curled around his newly-flayed stomach, arms desperately trying to protect himself in a vain attempt against any further hurt. His heart was pounding in his throat so loud he could hear it, and he was trembling all over. He couldn’t do this again, it was too soon, _too soon._ The healer pried his mouth open and shoved a few half-crushed green leaves of some herb under his tongue with a thick finger. Jaskier almost spit them out until he felt the calm overtaking him. A numbing feeling was spreading across his limbs, taking the edge off of the pain. It soothed his frantic thoughts too, leaving him in a blissful uncaring state after a few moments. He uncurled slowly when the man pulled him upright, dazedly sitting there against the cold of the cell wall, eyes blank. The man treated his wounds and left then, but Jaskier didn’t realize until much later, when his senses slowly came seeping back. The panic was still lingering in the back of his mind but he could sleep for now. He needed to if he was going to survive. For what, he wasn’t sure. 

He had long given up hope for any rescue. He had, at first, tried to hold out for a rescue - from Geralt, from Yennefer, from _anyone_ , but as the days and weeks dragged along, and he was dragged out of his cell again and again and _again,_ he slowly lost hope. Surely if someone knew that he was here, he would have been rescued by now. Eventually he admitted to himself that no one was coming. He had a panic attack that night, breath huffing in and out as he lay on his back on the cold floor next to his dinner vomited back up, his hands ice cold and trembling. He felt hot tears spill from the corner of his eyes that left tracks through the dirt and grime on his face as they plopped heavily to the ground. 

He tried to hold out for his music then. He dreamed sometimes of being back in Cintra or Novigrad, playing his heart out at a banquet, smiling faces clapping and singing along with him, his fingers dancing in elegant lines over his lute. He woke in the dark cell with the men marching down the hallway towards him and the dream made his reality feel that much worse. 

They cut deep lines one by one into the pads of his fingers during one of their sessions. He could recover from that though, he told himself. He might have a few scars leftover but he could regain his calluses with time. 

They broke his fingers during another session, one at a time. With the lack of medical attention, they set crooked as they slowly healed and his hands couldn’t close all of the way anymore, but that was also okay. Bones could be re-broken and set straight and his grip strength would return as well.

It wasn’t until they dislocated his shoulders that he lost that flicker of hope too. They had cuffed his arms behind his back, then hoisted his chains over a hook hanging from the ceiling and left him there, his toes several feet off the floor. He curled forward, trying to relieve the pressure on his joints. The burn in his shoulders turned into a bonfire of pain after several hours. He could feel bones grinding against each other in his shoulders and found himself wishing for them to dislocate. It might feel better than the pain of his ligaments and muscles jumping as they tried to hold his weight in ways they weren’t meant to. It had to feel better than this.

His right shoulder went first, it had always been the weaker of the two after he had been thrown from his horse as a young boy. He screamed between gritted teeth as it gave out, shaking with the pain. With the added strain, his left shoulder followed soon after, and Jaskier found himself once again sobbing in quiet desperation and pain. 

They took him down soon after that but didn’t bother to relocate his shoulders before throwing him to the floor of his cell. Jaskier lost consciousness as he hit the ground, shoulders exploding in agony as they jarred against the stone. He slowly gained consciousness again some time later but didn’t move from where he lay. Tears sprang to his eyes again and he cried. 

He knew no one was coming for him. 

He was alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier meets someone new...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, this was just going to be a one-shot, but of course we couldn’t leave poor Jaskier all alone, could we now?

They came for him that day as they always did, the familiar tramp of hard-soled boots on stone coming towards him triggering the now-familiar grip of fear around his mind. His broken hands were trembling harder than he could hold them steady and he swiped an arm across his eyes to wipe away the moisture that threatened to fall down his face. His captors only mocked him and beat him worse when he cried in front of them so he tried not to. Some days he couldn’t help it though.

The key clicked in the lock and the heavy metal door to his cell screeched open. Jaskier felt his stomach twist in a knot as the men came towards him. He cowered towards the floor, careful to not meet their eye. There was a time when he would have defiantly met their gaze, spitting insults or daring them to get close enough that he could head-butt or bite one of them but now he was cowed. He knew somewhere deep down that it must have made him a broken man, but louder part of his mind also knew his submissive actions made it hurt less and that was all that mattered anymore. 

Hard hands gripped his arms and pulled him to standing between them. Jaskier bite back a moan at the movement. His shoulders had been dislocated and relocated a week or two ago and they still bothered him. The pain was worse if they hung him from the manacles, sometimes to the point where he couldn’t sleep at night. Those times were especially bad. 

They were dragging him out of the room now, his feet trailing on the floor behind them. His knees wouldn’t have allowed him to stand even if he had wanted to. They turned towards _the_ room, the _bad_ room, and he felt fear and bile rise in his throat. He didn’t know why he expected anything else at this point. They never took him anywhere else when they escorted him out of his cell. He was still shaking, breath coming out in harsh rasps as they strapped him into the chair. The cool leather cuffs encircling his arms and legs felt as tight as his throat. He tugged desperately at the restraints. They didn’t move, they never did, but he had to try. He didn’t want what he knew was coming next. 

The guards who had hauled him into the room left. It was always the same. They would let him sit and get lost in his imagination of what was to come for a while before his torturer would arrive and the pain would start. 

He sat in the quiet room, heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t have any warning for when the man would come. Sometimes it was a few short moments, other times it might have been hours. The only warning he had was the sound of boots in the hallway. 

He could hear them coming now and he screwed his eyes closed. “Please,” he whispered. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking for. For the man to walk past, for an end to the torture. “Please, _please_ ,” 

The footsteps stopped in the doorway, then slowly entered the room behind him. He didn’t know what the man was waiting for. _Fuck_ , maybe he was taking his time just to let Jaskier panic longer. It was all part of their plan. Make him sweat as long as possible before the actual hurt began, let his mind run wild with the idea of what was going to come any second now. 

He could hear the man behind him walking towards him. It felt like his heart was going to beat its way through his chest. He kept his eyes squeezed firmly shut. Sometimes he would be ordered to watch whatever torture they were inflicting on him that day. That was the worst - somehow watching made the pain feel that much more vivid and _real._ If he could, he kept his eyes shut and tried to lose himself in his mind. He tried to do that now, tried to imagine himself somewhere else, but the man was just waiting, not saying anything and it was incredibly unnerving. 

“Just fucking _do it_ already,” Jaskier finally spat. He tried to sound defiant but his voice cracked on the last word. He would probably be beaten extra for talking back but he couldn’t take it anymore.

The man spoke then. “Hey,” his voice was soft, “Are you okay?” His tone and the words were so unexpected that Jaskier let out a noise that was half a laugh, half a sob of relief. It wasn’t the Nilfgaardian’s voice though, at least not the usual one, so he cracked an eye open hesitantly. 

His blue eyes met yellow and his heart stopped for a beat. But no, it wasn’t Geralt. The man was a Witcher, his yellow eyes unmistakeable, but he had dark brown hair instead and scars raking across his face where Geralt’s face was smooth. 

_Not Geralt._ Jaskier didn’t know if he was disappointed that it was someone else or relieved that his friend wouldn’t see him like this. 

The Witcher was working on releasing him from the restraints then, one limb at a time being freed. Jaskier was still staring at him, blinking as he tried to catch up with what was going on. 

“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” the man said. A gloved hand was being offered to him to help him out of the chair and it finally clicked. 

He was being rescued.

Tears sprang suddenly to his eyes as he looked back at the man before him, hand still outstretched. Jaskier had imagined this happening over and over again, mostly at the beginning of his capture, but as the days and weeks had dragged along with no relief in sight, he had given up hope. Somehow not daring to hope was easier than waiting for something he wasn’t sure would ever happen. He was so sure there would be no end to the torture until eventually, _inevitably,_ he would be pushed beyond repair and he would die here - in a stinking Nilfgaardian dungeon. Now though, with his supposed rescue actually happening... It was suddenly too much for him. He crumpled inward, sobs wracking his tired body as he curled into a ball in the seat of the chair. He was vaguely aware of the Witcher hovering over him as he cried but he wasn’t expecting the hand on his shoulder and when it touched, he flinched so hard he almost fell off the chair. At least it startled the sobs out of him. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” The Witcher’s voice was low, but not as low as Geralt’s. He sounded concerned. Jaskier lifted his tear-streaked face off his knees with a sniff and scrubbed at it with his sleeve. His doublet had long since disappeared and his shirt was filthy from weeks spent without a wash in a dungeon but it was more about the act of visibly composing himself than anything. 

“Sorry,” he whispered back quietly, breath hitching on the last of his sobs. He didn’t know why the man was apologizing to him. Maybe it was a trick. It was never _their_ fault, it was always his. He needed to apologize better, maybe they wouldn’t hurt him then, or at least hurt him more than they already would...

“Hey,” the Witcher interrupted his spiralling thoughts, hand lightly touching his shoulder again and staying this time. Jaskier flinched again but the Witcher’s touch was purposely light, meant to be comforting, and he slowly relaxed under it. 

“My horse isn’t far from here and I have food and water for you, maybe even a change of clothes if you want them.” Jaskier looked up at him cautiously, expecting a change of heart any second, but the Witcher was still just looking back at him with an open expression. A hint of a frown crossed Jaskier’s brows but he slowly unraveled himself and climbed out of the chair. He wasn’t entirely sure he should be trusting this stranger, but the man at least seemed to be nicer than anyone he had encountered here and if his hopes would be dashed in the end when it turned out to be a betrayal after all... Well, then at least he would have tried, he decided. The other man caught his elbow to support him and helped him out of the room and then up the many stairs and out of the keep too, waiting patiently when Jaskier, weak from weeks of torture, needed to stop for a break. Jaskier kept waiting for the man to change his mind, to leave him locked up somewhere after all but then they reached the door to the outdoors. It swung open at the Witcher’s touch and Jaskier felt the sun’s warmth on his face for the first time in months. Something that might have been hope stirred from where he had buried it deep in his heart as he and his new friend stepped out into the sunlight together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So hopefully that makes up for how mean I was to our favorite little bard last chapter! I’ll probably add another couple chapters of more comfort stuff to wrap things up a bit more. Hope you’re enjoying it so far! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start looking up for our favorite bard and our boys actually introduce themselves!

Eskel watched the man from out of the corner of his eye as he devoured the food set in front of him. The prisoner had obviously been in the Nilfgaardian keep for a while, judging by his scruffy, now-former beard and long hair. At least he was in clean clothes and bathed now. Eskel didn’t know what the man might have done, but based off of the sour smell of fear and blood the dungeons had reeked of, no one deserved the atrocities committed down there. He didn’t know the particulars of what the Nilfgaardians had done to their prisoner but based off of the chair he had found the man strapped into and how hard the man had flinched when he had tried to comfort him, he could guess it wasn’t anything good. You didn’t strap someone down to do nice things to them. The man’s fingers had been broken at some point and set crooked, he had noticed. They obviously still caused him pain - the small almost imperceptible movements when he bent them too far and flinched them back open and the tightening around his mouth showed Eskel that. 

They had made good time away from the keep, the man - requiring some help to get there - seated atop Scorpion and Eskel leading his horse. The man didn’t have boots, so it seemed the logical solution. He had thought about riding behind him, but thought he might need his space for now. They had traveled for several hours, Eskel keeping a close eye on his new companion. He had seen the man wincing in pain several times as they went over rough terrain, holding his arms tightly in front of him as if his arms or torso hurt, but each time when Eskel turned to ask if he was alright or needed a break, the other man carefully schooled his face to a neutral expression and quietly said he was fine to keep going. He still wasn’t meeting Eskel’s gaze either. 

If the man wanted to put some distance between himself and his former prison though, he couldn’t blame him. Eskel shouldn’t have gotten involved himself, Vesemir had told them time and time again to not get involved with politics, but he had heard rumors of the Nilfgaardian’s hold from a couple of loud-mouthed guards at the local tavern bragging about torturing a prisoner. With only a few men guarding the keep and a few well-placed Axii signs to make them think they had urgent business elsewhere for a while, it was easily to slip inside to investigate. He didn’t think about what he might do with anyone he found there and hadn’t planned on bringing them _with_ him much less, but once he had seen the man and heard his whispered pleas from the hallway, he knew he couldn’t leave him there. And now it seemed he had a new traveling companion, at least for a while.

Eskel eventually called a halt when the other man’s breathing started to become labored. They had gotten far enough from the keep that by the time the Nilfgaardians had realized they were missing their prisoner, Eskel and his traveling companion would be far enough away that they would be relatively safe for the night. The other man didn’t protest when he was helped down from the horse or when Eskel had handed him a pair of fresh clothes - his own spare pair - a straight razor, and a bar of soap and pointed him towards the nearby creek as Eskel set up camp and made food for them both. The man quietly accepted it all, avoiding Eskel’s eyes ever so carefully and standing with shoulders rounded like he was trying to take up as little space as possible. It made something uncomfortable stir in Eskel’s chest. He was used to being treated with distain, mistrust, and even fear. That came with being a Witcher and even moreso with his facial scars in more recent years but the man he was traveling with was much more than just afraid of him. He seemed broken.

“Where are you from? Is there someone I could take you to where you’ll be safe?” He finally asked to his companion sitting across the fire. The man froze at the sound, a piece of meat halfway to his mouth. His eyes darted around nervously, as if he was going to bolt. He didn’t though, apparently deeming Eskel’s question innocent enough. 

“Lettenhove,” he said in the same quiet voice he seemed to use all the time. 

Eskel frowned. Lettenhove was several weeks travel away by horse. If he was going to leave the man with someone who could keep him safe, that was far out of his way. 

“How was it that you came to be here of all places then?” Nilfgaard wouldn’t have bothered to transport a prisoner from that far away to where they currently were in the middle of nowhere, which meant the man must have been a traveler of some sort, Eskel guessed.

“I travel around....or I used to,” the man corrected himself. He was fidgeting with his food now, obviously growing uncomfortable at the questions.

Eskel cast his thoughts around for something to put the man at ease, then something dawned on him. “Oh! I’m Eskel, by the way. It seems that in all of the breaking in and escaping that was going on, I forgot to properly introduce myself.”

The man looked up sharply at that, meeting Eskel’s gaze for the first time that afternoon. He seemed to realize what he was doing after a second, and dropped his gaze back down, hiding his eyes behind his too-long hair. There was an emotion playing over his face but the Witcher wasn’t quite sure what it was. The silence dragged on for several long moments, the only noise coming from the gentle popping of the fire. He must have had a stressful day and Eskel was about to tell him it was okay if he didn’t feel comfortable talking more when the man spoke. 

“I’m Jaskier,” he murmured, barely loud enough for Eskel to hear, even with his enhanced hearing. Eskel smiled back at him as kindly as he could, hoping to put the other man more at ease. Then he blinked. 

“Wait... Like _‘Toss a Coin’_ Jaskier?” He asked, suddenly curious. When he had returned yearly to winter in Kaer Morhen, Geralt had never described the bard that had followed him for decades in visual terms, always instead using words like ‘talkative,’ ‘energetic,’ ‘an insatiable flirt,’ and ‘noisy’. The man in front of him didn’t seem to be any of those things but Eskel had run across very few _Jaskiers_ in his travels and Destiny had a way of playing tricks on everyone from time to time. 

The other man looked up again at that, blue eyes meeting Eskel’s yellow. A half smile flitted across his lips for a second, then disappeared as soon as it had come. He dropped his head back down to his food and lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “I guess I used to be.” His low voice was hoarse and Eskel suddenly smelled the salty scent of tears. Jaskier took a deep breath and wiped his face with his sleeve, the light grey fabric just making his face look paler by comparison. 

“Sorry,” he whispered. Gods, Eskel was going to have to get him to stop that. It was completely unnecessary and also extremely uncomfortable to always be apologized to. 

“Does Geralt know you’re here?” The other Witcher could be bull-headed, stubborn, and unintentionally selfish sometimes but Eskel couldn’t imagine him leaving anyone he knew in harm’s way. 

Another frown crossed Jaskier’s face and he hesitated. “I... I don’t think so. I haven’t seen him in months.” His tone was uncertain and Eskel found himself feeling suddenly protective of the bard. He wasn’t sure if Jaskier’s ‘months’ included just the time he had been imprisoned or longer. If Geralt had been an ass in his usual way and left his former traveling companion in danger... Eskel wasn’t sure what he would do, but it wouldn’t be nice. 

———

That night, after Jaskier had fallen asleep curled up in Eskel’s bedroll, Eskel contacted Vesemir on his xenovox. The elder Witcher had insisted the younger Witchers carry the communication devices on them this year during their travels as the conflicts with Nilfgaard stirred tensions in the south and the Continent moved towards war. Eskel had agreed with Geralt and Lambert when they had complained, carefully out of Vesemir’s earshot of course, about the older man fussing over them, but now for the first time, he was grateful it was stuffed in his pack. 

It took a few minutes for Vesemir to reply, but eventually the familiar voice of the other Witcher carried through the device. “Eskel. What’s the problem?”

Now that Vesemir was here, Eskel wasn’t really sure what he wanted to know. Maybe he just needed to think out loud more than anything, to see if the other Witcher had any advice. Vesemir was good with that. 

“Have you heard from Geralt?” He asked finally. 

Vesemir paused. “Not since spring, why?” 

“I have his bard.” Eskel was careful to keep his voice low to avoid waking the sleeping figure across the fire. Vesemir didn’t say anything but Eskel could feel his ‘And?’ through the xenovox, so he continued. “He’s been held by Nilfgaard. For a while. He needs to get somewhere safe.” 

Thankfully, Vesemir could read between the lines which kept Eskel from having to describe the beaten and haunted man before him. 

“Can he travel?” 

Eskel nodded. “We can for maybe a few days, he needs rest and recuperation badly though. I can’t travel all the way back to Kaer Morhen with him in his condition and I can’t leave him here. Not like this.” he finished softly. 

“You did the right thing, son.” Vesemir thought for a moment. “Triss Merigold is only a day’s ride to your west in a village called Talisborough, do you think you can make it there?” When Eskel agreed, Vesemir continued, “I’ll send word to her and ask if she can portal you both to Kaer Morhen. There’s no one here at the moment except for me and the bard will be safe here.” 

Eskel felt a bit of weight lift off his shoulders. “We’ll see you then.” He finished with a nod. _Thanks, Vesemir,_ he thought to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there we have it! I’m guessing at this point there will be maybe 3-5 more chapters? We gotta have a Geralt-Jaskier reunion for maximum hurt/comfort angst, right? ;)


End file.
